The Mourners Poem by Ian Keenan
The Mourners
His death has flayed them,
Crossed and weeping,
Conclusions buried,
Fingers flailing dust,
Questions piled frantic. ,
They walk sightless
About the sun,
And on their knees
Exhausted -
Crack stones for water.
They rest in the past
On him that cannot rest;
They do not think him
Dead,
Just that he barely touches them,
His path not quite in line
With theirs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/19/2024 10:18:51 PM # 1.0.0.1119
